Since the day you married Marcus Acacius, the Roman nobility had never quite learned how to keep their mouths shut. You were so much younger than him, too young, they said, for a man forged by war and hardened by years of command. People whispered that he had taken advantage of you, that he had trapped you in marriage for his own benefit.

None of it mattered. You both knew the truth.

You never shrank from him in public. You held his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and when he returned from campaign, you kissed him openly before his soldiers, uncaring of who watched. It was love, simple and undeniable. And Marcus, for all his severity, never refused you anything that lay within his power.

The thought of a child entered your lives only recently.

At a noblewoman’s feast, celebrating her son’s first birthday, you had held the baby for quite a while, longer than politeness required. That night, you told Marcus you wanted one of your own. It wasn’t a new idea, not truly, you have talked about it before, but now it carried weight. Given Marcus’s age, conceiving might require more than hope and effort alone.

At times, his body simply did not answer your touch. He never spoke of it, but in private he was deeply grateful for your patience, for the tenderness with which you eased his embarrassment instead of wounding his pride.

Now he sat alone at his cluttered desk, war maps and scrolls scattered in careless disorder. From the garden beyond the window came your laughter, bright and playful followed by happy shrieks and the sound of water splashing as you teased your maids. Marcus smiled faintly.

Then his eyes drifted to the bronze mirror.

Grey threaded his hair. Fatigue lingered in his gaze. The smile faded.

Am I truly too old for her, he wondered, as they so viciously claim? Will I ever give her the child she longs for?

Your laughter drifted in again, bright as ever, but it was cut short by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Marcus said, his voice rough.

A maid stepped inside, clearly flustered, clutching a small wooden box adorned with delicate carvings, too luxurious for Marcus’s liking. “My lord,” she said, eyes fixed on the floor, “my lady asked me to give this to you. It’s some herb and she said it might help…”

She did not need to explain. Marcus nodded and dismissed her. The girl fled the room as if grateful to escape it.

A familiar ache settled behind his eyes. He rose and went to the window.

You were standing in the fountain now, water streaming down your clothes until they clung to you, leaving little to the imagination. You were so young, so vividly alive and when you looked up at him, you grinned, wide and knowing.

You knew exactly what the maid had just placed in his hands.